


Blutrunst: In the Bone

by IncurableNecromantic



Category: Okay so actually it's Blutrunst but bear with me, Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Gay Monsters, M/M, gay cannibals, leprosy, opera - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 19:06:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5016712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurableNecromantic/pseuds/IncurableNecromantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Herod Bethlehem had a pretty damn good first half of 1995.  The latter half, not so much.</p><p>  <i>A commission for mira-eyeteeth</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Blutrunst: In the Bone

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to mira-eyeteeth, patron and friend

The lawyer had called earlier that day. The house on Edel Avenue was now entirely in Herod's name.

To celebrate, Herod was having a candlelit bath and one of his utterly forbidden cigarettes.

Timothy had been gone for three months. They hadn't slept in the same bed in six. Isolde tried to claim that it was at least as traumatic a split as a divorce would've been. Herod disagreed, but if it pleased her to imagine him as a bitter divorcé, he supposed had no real objection.

He and Timothy had only been together for two years, really, and most of that had been on and off. The house had been a long shot, the project that was to bring them closer together. He'd been stupid to agree to buy it together but he'd loved it from the moment he saw that great big back garden, and all he'd cared about was getting it. And now he had it.

He had no idea if he'd loved Timothy, but he didn't particularly care if he had. He'd yet to cry over a lover. He didn't expect he ever would.

Still, he was rebounding, and that meant that he was perfectly at liberty to find something fun and easy. He did deserve something nice, he thought. A treat. There had to be someone tasty out there, interested in a little tangle or two. He’d have to start putting out a few feelers, if he didn’t have the good fortune to trip over something.

Herod smiled to himself, humming along with the radio. The apartment was so peaceful at two a.m., when it was just him and the gleaming, steaming water. He shifted in the bath, raising his feet and lower legs up out of the bath and crossing them on the ledge.

He took another drag on the cigarette and closed his eyes. He couldn't risk more than one every now and then, but mmm, what it did to his blood...

When he looked around again, he happened to glance at his crossed ankles.

Oh.

Strange.

He had a bit of a stain on his ankle.

Herod frowned and dipped his foot back into the water, brushing his fingers against the stain. It was pale and a little numb--perhaps he'd bumped it earlier in the week. Macbeth did have more physical movement than he'd remembered, and he was in constant danger of tripping over a prop.

He'd never seen such a pale bruise before. Perhaps it was a burn. How had he managed to come by such a large burn and not remember getting it? He must've been drunk.

Oh well.

It was hardly important.

* * *

Enoch Barnes was definitely Herod's idea of tasty. They didn’t bump into each other much, and when they did it was only ever to pass a few pleasantries. But Herod so enjoyed every time they did meet, even if it was only for the artistic appeal.

There was just so much of the boy, and it was all so young and lush and terribly, terribly pretty. And miracle of miracles, he was clever, too, or at least clever enough to be politically minded.

If he were a lesser sort of man, Herod would absolutely snap him up. He didn't really hold it against Isolde, that more than a few of his own boyfriends had cast a warm and wandering eye on her. After all, she was divine. It was either a very strong or a very gay man who could resist her charms, even though she had to be 85 if she was a day.

But Enoch Barnes was unmistakably claimed as Isolde's special pet, and though Herod would not have objected in the slightest if he were to find some of that in his lap, he wouldn't even try to filch Enoch away from his sweet cousin. It wouldn't be right.

And that didn't mean he couldn't give him a little stroke, now and then.

"Good evening," Herod said, glancing at Enoch over the rim of his wine glass. The young man turned at his voice and gave him a smile. "Enjoying the gallery?"

"Very much so," Enoch replied. "I've always loved that Pope Innocent X piece, but I'd never known about Three Studies for a Crucifixion."

"A charming discovery to make," Herod grinned. The boy did have such sterling taste. "Just the kind of thing for framing and hanging in a bedroom, don't you think?"

Enoch lifted his eyebrows and let out a short laugh. "You must think me pretty tame. All I have are a few Beardsley's to keep me company."

Beardsley! Who would've thought?

Herod covered his surprise with a sip of his drink. "Bless my soul, have I tipped my hand? I should've guessed you for a man of more refined sensibilities. I suppose we can't all feel frisky over a little tattered flesh and a few gnashing teeth."

Enoch looked him up and down and opened his mouth. Herod gave him a curious look, but he seemed to think the better of speaking and instead washed his words away with a sip of his cocktail.

Herod smirked a little to himself and swirled his drink. Hm, not exactly an invitation to stick around, was that? Well, you couldn't charm them all.

He spotted one of the new sopranos at the conservatory across the room and excused himself.

Enoch waved a hand and let him go.

* * *

 "You're Iago," his agent had said, and Herod was swept up.

Iago. A beautiful role, his favorite since Figaro. (Macbeth had his charms, but there wasn't a truly amusing aria in the whole opera.) Properly performed, the "Credo" could bring the roof in, and he had every intention of devastating his own audience.

He dropped everything but rehearsal, cocktail parties, and publicity meetings. The sacrifice really only amounted to a loss of regular sleep. He didn't miss it.

When he pulled it head up from music long enough to look about him, he was pleased with what he saw. The house on Edel Avenue was going along as it ought to, and though Herod hadn't found quite the right piece of furniture to replace Timothy, all was pretty much well.

Opening night for Otello was as perfectly passable as any opening night ever was. They'd have notes in the morning, since their adoring public would presumably want to see them before the director finished whatever raving he had to do.

Herod had just gotten out of makeup and was about to put on his suit when there was a knock at his door. He shrugged into a dressing gown -- he had only had to scandalize a society matron by coming to the door shirtless once to learn some valuable lessons -- and answered the summons.

Enoch Barnes was standing outside. He smiled at Herod and Herod gave him a quizzical little smile back.

"Hello," Herod said.

"Incredible performance, Beast," Enoch said, using that silly nickname Isolde had stuck him with. "You're to be commended."

"Thank you. Hard to go wrong with Verdi, don’t you think?" he demurred. "Is everything all right? I'll be out in a moment."

"Of course, I'm sorry. I'm interrupting. I just wanted to give you these."

Herod stared as Enoch produced a bouquet from behind his back. The calla lilies were stark white against the blooms of black roses and the three flaming peonies. The fragrance was incredible and Herod was fairly sure he gawped.

"For me?" he asked, inanely.

Enoch smiled. "Isolde mentioned you liked peonies?"

Oh dear. Perhaps he was being tormented? But that really wasn't like Isolde, if she'd even noticed Herod's regard for her boytoy. It was all perfectly innocent, he was sure.

No one had ever brought him flowers before. Isolde must've known how much he'd coveted the role, what a victory this was for him, and had sent her emissary along to congratulate him.

"How incredibly kind," he said, taking the bouquet. "Thank you, Enoch. They're beautiful."

Enoch arched an eyebrow. "I couldn't imagine you liking something as pedestrian as roses."

Herod laughed softly. "I'm touched by the insight. Let me get them in some water and get myself into a suit, and I'll be right out."

"No rush."

Herod closed the door and stood for a moment with the flowers, inhaling their scent. He grinned like a fool. What a perfect evening.

He stripped out of his dressing gown and trousers and reached for his suit. As he moved, he caught sight of himself in the mirror and stopped.

He'd thought the mark on his ankle was just a burn, but it didn't heal over. Now he thought it must be some kind of rash, because it was beginning to spread. Embarrassing, to be sure, but not particularly terrible.

It had splotched on his feet and now his elbows. Just the other day it had left a small, numb patch on the little finger of his left hand.

It was on his knees, now. Moving up.

Herod shuddered in disgust and hastily got his clothes on. He'd have to make the time to see a doctor about this. After the show's run.

He stepped out, freshly scented and adjusting his tie. Enoch glanced up from the Playbill in his hands and smiled.

"Lead the way," Herod said.

* * *

 "You look tired," Isolde said, kissing his cheek. "I take it you've replaced Timothy, then?"

Herod smiled thinly. "No, not yet. Maybe you've got some leftovers for me?"

"Oh, no, Beastie. You need something fresh. You'd break any of my beaus in half, if you haven't gotten a little something these past nine months."

Goodness, had it been that long? Certainly, he'd thought he was a little frustrated, but surely he and Timothy hadn't been cold all that time...

Perhaps he could find someone here--oh, but the rash. Who knew it if was contagious? And even if it wasn't, it was repulsive. He certainly wouldn't fuck himself, looking like he did under his clothes.

"I'm looking for love, Isolde," he replied, sipping his drink.

"Ew. Where on earth did you get such a vile idea?"

"No, it's true. I want it. The real stuff. I'm saving myself for marriage."

"Stop talking like that or I'll buy you a rent boy."

"That won't resolve a thing," Herod replied.

Isolde gave him a slow, long look. "Are you feeling well?" she asked. "You really are looking very tired."

"If this is a delicate way of telling me I need a face lift, I won't hear of it."

Isolde waved a hand at him. "Fine. Be miserable. Pine. See if I care. Where did I put--oh, there you are, my little political animal! It's been almost two weeks since I saw you. How you've grown."

"Good evening," Enoch Barnes said, as he approached them. He gave Herod a warm smile. "How are you?"

"Ghastly. We're absolutely falling apart," Isolde replied. Herod's eyebrow twitched before he could stop it and he knew Enoch had seen it from the way his smile grew just a little bit wicked. "Beast needs a good, hard massage, and I need a few weeks out of the city. Perhaps you'll come with me, darling? I don't suppose you've ever seen the marvels of the wider world?"

Enoch sank his hands into his pockets. "Well, now, I think I could recommend an excellent spot for a weekend out of the city."

“Oh, yes, that’s right,” Isolde sighed.

"Hm?" Herod asked.

"Enoch's from Pottsfield," Isolde drawled. "I can't believe you didn't know that, Beast."

"I'm afraid I do gush a little on the subject," Enoch admitted wryly. He didn’t sound particularly sorry for that. Herod grinned at him. "I'm just welling over with community spirit."

"Isn't there an apple orchard out that way?" Herod asked. "I believe I used to see someone who made a point to get out to little town in the country and pick apples in the fall."

Enoch's smile took on an unabashedly delighted cast. Perhaps Herod should've brought his sunglasses. "Yes! We have an apple orchard, of course, and the biggest pumpkin farm in the county."

Herod gave him a little smile. "Is there a bureau that records that kind of information? I want to make sure my tax dollars are going to only the finest of pumpkin research agencies."

Enoch laughed. "You'd be surprised by how much that can matter to a place's tourism industry, in the autumn. We get into legal battles over it like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Oh, I can only imagine…”

“Let me think, now...your friend probably went to the orchard out by the post office, and I can tell you--"

"Please, do excuse me," Isolde chirped. "I'm going to get myself a drink. You boys can stay here and have a nice chatter about worms and rot and whatever on earth there is to do in the country."

Herod gave Isolde a brightly sarcastic look. "I do believe we're being rebuked, Mr. Barnes. Perhaps it's best if we focus on subject of this gathering, which would be...?"

"I hardly care," Isolde replied, tossing her head. "Carlisle has been producing absolute dreck lately, and his new protégé isn't too much better. At least it's all visual. I hate to think of us forced to sit there in silence and clap."

"What precisely is visual poetry, anyway?" Enoch asked. His enthusiasm was muted. Herod stifled a frown. He was so young still, so untouched. Isolde was being callous, to stick pins in him.

Eesh. He needed to take care of this rash ASAP. Sexual frustration was making him positively saccharine.

"At least someone is asking the right questions. I've no idea what it must be, but with a name like 'visual poetry' it can't fail to disappoint," Herod said. "Let me see what I can find--I think I see Betty Brewer over there. She still does the art world section, doesn't she?"

"If you can call it a whole section..." Isolde said.

Herod waved a hand. "I'll go dig something out of her."

"For God's sake," Isolde called after him, "bring back cocktails!"

* * *

The first floor on Edel Avenue was just done, and he spend some time getting it together and looking over his finances for the second floor rehabilitation. It was coming along beautifully. He could probably move in next spring.

That was the good news.

Herod tried to assure himself that it was just a pimple. God knew that he still broke out now and then, when he was particularly stressed. It was repulsive, of course, and embarrassing for a grown man, but it wasn't anything to alarm him.

But he really didn't think he'd ever had anything quite like this. It didn't look right.

Herod leaned over his dressing table and prodded at it with his fingertips. He almost recoiled from the touch. The bump was horrible and sort of spongey.

Disgusting.

Herod frowned at himself and examined the rest of his face in the mirror. He looked fine. He felt fine, if a little tired. The Iago role had quickly become the Mephistopheles role. He knew he needed a break, but how could he turn down Mephistopheles? He never thought he'd had so many roles in a row that he'd so enjoyed, and he couldn't justify taking the time to stay away from the theater.

He just needed a little makeup. It would clear up, if he just got some sleep, and if it didn't, he'd go to the doctor after this run. Or take a vacation. Something.

Herod covered it up and went to rehearsal.

* * *

Immediately on the heels of Mephistopheles came the Dutchman, and after the Dutchman, Bluebeard. God, it was a relief, to only have a one-act opera to perform. It was demanding, as befitted a titanic piece, but it was only an hour long, and mostly about Judith. He loved it. He thought it was some of his best work.

After every performance, he almost collapsed in his dressing room. The rash was spreading. Parts of it were totally numb, and even a direct jab didn’t register, in some places. He couldn't really use his left little finger anymore.

After Bluebeard, he took a two weeks off. Then three. He slept twelve hours a day and woke tired. He could hardly eat. He was freezing cold all the time. He was still breaking out, worse now. It had moved to his nose and whatever it was, it wasn’t just acne. The rash wasn't going away.

He didn’t trust himself to drive.

Finally, he called Isolde.

"Something's wrong with me," he said. "I need you to come over."

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Beast. Is it really very drastic? I just got my makeup off for the night and I--"

"I'm sick, Isolde," he said. "I need your help."

He listened to her breathe on the line for a few seconds.

"Who did you fuck?" she asked at last.

"It isn't that," Herod said.

"Who?"

"I tell you, it isn’t that! I've never let anyone d-do that to me. Not without protection, at least!"

"What about that horrible tattoo of yours?"

"I got that from a respectable shop, Isolde! I watched them take the needles out of the sterile wrap--" Herod cut himself off with a disgusted noise. "If it's that, that's not all it is. I need your help. Something is wrong with me."

“All right,” she said. “I’ll be right over. It’s probably nothing.”

It wasn’t nothing. He knew that much for certain.

* * *

 He hadn’t sung in months.

They’d had to take his left little finger, half of his left ring finger, and the top of his right ring finger because of something called aseptic necrosis. Parts of his feet were gone. His skin had had to be flayed away, peeled and carved off like bad bits of produce. Strange blood swam in his veins. He was a living ruin.

His worldly possessions were dwindling as he found ways to pay his bills. He couldn’t look at himself in the mirror.

No one came to visit him.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Bethlehem,” the doctor said. “But there’s too much risk of infection, even gangrene, if it’s left to deteriorate anymore. And it could very easily go to your brain, if we’re not carefully. I think it’s best if we remove most of your nose.”

Herod stared at him.

“Do you know what it is, yet?” he asked.

The doctor’s jaws clenched. “No. We have some...theories, but we’re not sure yet. I assure you, we’re looking into every possible diagnosis.”

Herod shuddered beneath his clothes.

“Very well, then,” he said quietly. “Take it all.”


End file.
